Mario said nothing but looked into the middle distance.

‘Mario?’

‘Give me a second. I’m thinking of how to start.’ His voice was low now, slow and deliberate, yet also with a tone that was unfamiliar.

She gave him her full attention, her eyes never leaving his as she sat at the kitchen table, strangled by the fear of what might leave his mouth next. ‘Start what?’

Her husband sat opposite her, his expression serious, his brow knitted and his top teeth biting over his bottom lip in the way he did when nervous. It did nothing to allay her alarm.

‘Why did you have such a rubbish start to your birthday?’ he asked quietly, his voice faltering, as he did what she had wished for and gave her his full attention.

She took a deep breath and let her hands rise and fall on the tabletop. ‘I guess . . . I suppose it started when you got me a card with a duck on it – a card that you lost!’ She shook her head. ‘Not that it matters – not now, not a jot. It really doesn’t. But just for once, I wanted you to be one of those husbands who spends half an hour in Clintons choosing me something with a rose on it or an overly sentimental message that you don’t really read but would fill me with all kinds of warm feelings when I find it in the drawer over the coming year. You know, words like “you are my darling, my one, my gorgeous wife”, like you used to, and I’m not having a go at you – I know I need to be the kind of wife who buys her husband a card like that too. But a duck, Mario?’ She tried out a laugh and shook her head. ‘And then Mum and Dad, who I know try, bless them—’

‘I’m not happy, Bess.’ Cold, icy blocks of fear filled her as he paused and took a breath, as if getting the words out was a struggle. ‘I’m not happy, and I haven’t been for a while. I think . . . I think this might be the end of the road for us.’

His announcement cut through her words and severed her train of thought. She laughed, a nervous, short, sharp giggle this time, and felt the stab of a pain in her chest. She put her hand to her throat, fingers shaking, and struggled to stay calm.

‘That’s not funny.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be.’ He used a voice she rarely heard. A voice saved for altercations with other road users, anyone who criticised his kids, door-knocking types selling Jesus when he was trying to watch the rugby or cricket, and now her.